The Duke, the Baron and the Maiden
by NightKat86
Summary: Women are the pathological source of crime. They are untrustworthy, unreliable and dangerous. This is the rule Sherlock Holmes lives by. There is no exception...but one...Rating may go up as story goes on
1. Chapter 1

**Introduction**

"Now really Holmes!"

Sherlock Holmes rolled his eyes as he climbed into the cab, Dr, Watson following close behind.

They had just finished another menacing case in glorious triumph, and Holmes hardly heard the finalities before relapsing into the depression he associated with normal life.

It was the subsequent change of his manner and demeanour that his friend was referring to.

"The case was a complete success! You've put a dangerous murderer in prison and saved a man and his family from an evil fate. You've accomplished so much and yet you mope about like it's the end of the world."

"It is the end of the world for me," Sherlock replied, "the mystery is solved and I have nothing more to work on. Give me another problem Watson, and I shall be myself again."

Watson frowned. This had been the first case they'd had in six months and during the time Holmes had shown such despair he had fallen seriously ill. Watson had hoped the opportunity to work his incredible mind would keep the great detective satisfied until another case presented itself. This apparently would not be the case.

"So I suppose you intend to go home and revert back to indulging in your 'artificial stimulants'?" he asked aggressively.

"You could not be further from the truth, Watson," Holmes replied, "I was intending to continue practicing that piece we heard from the concert the other night, though I do thank you for your unshakeable confidence."

The meaning behind the last few words was not lost on Watson, who turned his head to the window, silently ashamed.

Another few minutes of tense silence went by before Sherlock signalled to the driver to stop and jumped out the cab.

"Where are you going?" Watson asked, surprised by this sudden spurt of action.

"I need some air. I'll see you back at Baker Street."

He was gone before the doctor could reply, walking quickly down the street and disappearing into the thick London fog.

**Chapter 1 – The Lady in the Graveyard**

Sherlock paid little attention to where he was going at first; all he knew was that he wanted to be alone.

The truth was he _had_ intended to take cocaine when he returned home, and he was furious with himself for having deceived Watson and causing him to be unnecessarily guilty. But in truth, the drug was the one thing that kept him stimulated when he didn't work and was thus essential to curing him of his boredom and subsequent frustration. It was something Watson never understood.

But he knew his indulgences were poisoning him; that it would cause him to lose the unique powers he had been bestowed with; but above all: he knew it greatly disturbed his medical friend.

Initially, during these times Watson would try to get him out of Baker Street: taking him to concerts, theatres restaurants; anywhere to snap him out of his depression. But these outings quickly ceased as in every case, Sherlock either refused to go out, or, when he did go out, he was heavily drugged; causing Watson very acute embarrassment.

No, Sherlock would not seek solace in social outings, for there was no one in London with whom Sherlock could socialise with; who shared in his unique interests and understood his way of thinking. It would often be this depressing thought that often made him even worse.

This was the state Sherlock Holmes found himself, wandering the streets of London on a bitter, night. He hardly paid attention to where he was going until he found himself walking through a graveyard.

He stopped on the path, and was about to turn back when he became aware of being observed. He continued walking slowly until reaching a small pond at the bottom of a hill.

There he stood, looking over the water while listening to the follower. A woman he could tell, by her footsteps.

He listened as she made her way, until he could sense her standing directly behind him and he turned round.

Before him stood the apparition of a woman: young, meagre with high cheek bones and a sharp chin; large, grave wistful eyes; nervous, uncertain lips; and chestnut brown hair.

"Am I in London?" she said.

Her manner was quiet and self-controlled, a little melancholy and a little touched by suspicion.

Sherlock, became intrigued for he could tell she wasn't an ordinary beggar.

Her voice had something curiously still and mechanical in its tones, and the way she uttered her words was remarkably rapid. She held a small bag in her hand, and wore a dress and bonnet of simple and inexpensive material.

Her figure was slight and rather above average height and her actions free from any extravagance.

All these things Sherlock observed in an instant.

"Did you hear me?" she said, still quietly and rapidly, and without the least fretfulness or impatience. "I asked if I am in London."

"Yes," Sherlock replied, "you must excuse my not answering you before. I was rather startled by your appearance here."

"You don't suspect me of doing any wrong, do you? I have done nothing wrong. I am very unfortunate in being here alone so late. Why do you suspect me of doing something wrong?"

She spoke with unnecessary earnestness and agitation, and shrank back from him several steps.

Despite the girl's obvious agitation, Sherlock felt the peculiar bubble of delight that only occurred in him when there was a mystery to solve. His depression was rapidly disappearing.

"I suspect you of nothing," he reassured her, hoping to gain her trust. "I merely wondered at how I could not have noticed you before now."

She turned and pointed to a sheltered spot behind a giant oak tree.

"I heard you coming," she said, "and hid there to see what sort of a man you were, before I risked speaking. I doubted and feared about it till you passed; and then I was obliged to follow you and speak to you."

"Can I trust you?" she asked. She stopped in confusion; shifted her bag from one hand to the other and sighed bitterly.

Sherlock was not renowned for his emotions, yet the loneliness and helplessness of the woman touched him.

"You may trust me to assist you if you are in trouble. If you are too upset to explain your situation then we can leave that matter to rest for the moment. Tell me how I can help you and if I can, I will."

"You are very kind, and I am very, very thankful to have met you. I have only been in London once before," she went on, more and more rapidly, "and I know nothing about this area. Can I get a cab? Is it too late? I don't know. If you could show me where to get a cab, and let me leave you, when and how I please – I have a friend in London who will be glad to receive me – I want nothing else – will you promise?"

She looked anxiously up the hill and across the lake, continuously switching her bag from one hand to the other.

"Will you promise?" she repeated, looking hard in his face, with a pleading fear and confusion that troubled Sherlock exceedingly.

The last thing he wanted to do was let this lady go without if she was in danger.

"Are you sure that your friend will receive you at such a late hour?" he asked, trying to gain time.

"Quite sure. Only say you will let me leave you when and how I please – only say you won't interfere with me. Will you promise?"

As she repeated the words for the third time, she came close to him, and laid her hand, with a sudden gentle stealthiness, on his arm; a gesture that caused Sherlock, such intimate gestures being against his character, to instantly shrug off.

"Will you promise?"

Sherlock sighed.

"Very well. I promise."

They walked together out the graveyard, and made their way to central London. They walked in silence initially, and Sherlock tried to think of a way to inadvertently get her to talk more about herself when, of her own accord, she said: "I want to ask you something. Do you know many people in London?"

Sherlock kept up the appearance of being uninterested.

"Yes, a great many," he replied dismissively.

"Many men of rank and title?"

There was an unmistakeable tone of suspicion in the strange question and Sherlock breath shortened, knowing that there was a clue hidden somewhere in this conversation.

"Some," he answered, again trying to sound uninterested.

"Many"- she came to a full stop, and looked at him searchingly in the face – "many men of the rank of Baronet?"

At this point, Sherlock gave up all pretences.

"Why do you ask?"

"Because I hope, for my own sake, there is one Baronet that you don't know."

"Will you tell me his name?" Sherlock asked.

"I can't – I daren't – I forget myself, when I mention it." She spoke loudly, almost fiercely, raised her clenched hand in the air and shook it passionately; then, on a sudden, controlled herself again, and added, in tones lowered to a whisper: "Tell me which of them you know."

Sherlock mentioned three names, all of them old clients.

"Ah! You don't know him," she sighed with relief, "are you a man of rank and title yourself?"

Sherlock smirked.

"I am thankful to say that I am far from that class. I am a detective."

No sooner had the words passed his lips, than she took his arm with the abruptness which characterised all her actions.

"Not a man of rank and title," she repeated to herself, "thank God I can trust you."

Her gesture once again startled him, but this time he made no attempt to push her away.

"I fear that it is this nameless Baronet which has stricken in you such fear, is the reason why you were in a graveyard at such a strange time of night?"

"Don't ask me, don't make me speak of it," she answered. "I'm not fit now. I've been cruelly used and cruelly wronged. You will be kinder than ever, if you will walk fast and not speak to me."

"But if that is the case, surely you can let me help you? I am an unofficial detective. Your secrets will be safe, as would you be, if you put yourself in my care."

"I cannot!" she cried, "Please do not say such things to me, I cannot afford the luxury of trusting strangers. Do what you have agreed sir, and you will have done me a great service."

They moved forward again at a quick pace, and for half an hour, not a word was past from either of them.

It wasn't until they reached the heart of the city that she spoke again.

"Do you live in London?" she asked.

"Yes," Sherlock answered. "221b Baker Street. It isn't far from here. I've just returned from a case in the country."

"Where in the country?"

"Exeter."

"I wish I was back in the country. I've been there, a long time ago."

"In Exeter?"

"No, Cumbernauld," she replied tenderly. "I was once happy in Cumbernauld."

Sherlock saw the opportunity to unveil the women's background.

"Perhaps you were born in the Lake Country." He said cautiously.

"No," she answered, "I was born in Hampshire, but I once went to school for a while in Cumbernauld. I don't remember there being any lakes. It is dear old Green Gables I should very much like to see again."

"Indeed," said Sherlock, who was listening intently.

"It was many years ago, now," she continued, "old Mr and Mrs Allan will be dead by now – the old couple that lived in Gable Manor and owned the estate. So will Mrs Harrison who lived in Green Gables and teached at the old school where I attended."

"Who lives there now?" Sherlock asked.

"Most likely Mrs and Mrs Allan's son and daughter live in the manor; but I can't say who lives in Green Gables now, but if they are of the same family as Mrs Harrison, then I will love them for her sake."

She seemed about to say more; but while she was speaking, they came within view of a grand old theatre, outside of which there stood a young gentleman casually smoking a cigarette.

At the sight of him, her hand tightened around Sherlock's arm.

"Is that man looking at us?" she asked anxiously.

Sherlock answered a definite no to her question.

To him, the young man was obviously waiting for his lady friend to appear for their viewing of the theatre.

Despite his answer, however, the sight of the man had made the lady agitated and impatient.

"This is far enough," she said, "Do you see any cab I can get? I am tired and frightened. I want to shut myself in and be driven away."

Sherlock frowned. A beautifully introduced mystery had landed on his lap and now, in the same instance, it was going to run away from him.

He explained to her they had to walk a little further to get a cabstand, unless an empty carriage happened to pass them on the street.

They walked on again, and he tried to resume the subject of Cumbernauld but it was useless. The idea of shutting herself in, and being driven away, had now got full possession of her mind and she seemed unable to think of anything else.

They had hardly proceeded down the next street when Sherlock noticed a cab draw up at a house a few doors away.

Realising the uselessness of detaining her further, Sherlock hailed the cab as the driver mounted the box again. By this time, the lady's impatience increased to such an extent that she almost forced him into a run.

"Where to sir?" the driver asked as Sherlock helped her in.

"To Tottenham," she answered with breathless eagerness, "yes, that'll do. It's close to where I want to go."

Once she was seated inside, Sherlock tried to persuade her to let him accompany her to her destination.

"No, no, no," she replied vehemently. "I'm quite safe and quite happy now. If you are a gentleman, remember your promise. Let him drive on till I stop him."

There was nothing else to be done for the present.

He smiled at her reassuringly and gave her his card.

"I shall keep my promise as agreed; and if you should ever need my assistance again, my card has my address on it."

She took his card and read out his name.

"Mr Sherlock Holmes, 221b Baker Street, London; consulting detective. Is that your name?"

"Yes."

"Thank you, Mr Sherlock Holmes, thank you ever so much!"

His hand was still on the cab door, and she took it in hers and kissed it before pushing it away. At that moment the cab drove off, leaving Sherlock in the middle of the street.

He had a vague thought to follow after it, but quickly decided against this, as there would be no point; by the time he had managed to find another cab at this time of night, she would be long gone. Whereas, if he waited till morning, he was certain he would track her down.

With this in mind, he walked on, making his way to Baker Street with his mind full of the night's events. He was unconscious of anything else until he was roused by the sound of rapidly approaching wheels.

He had just turned the corner and was walking quickly down the street when he noticed a constable on the other side of the road.

The carriage passed him – an open chaise driven by two men.

"Stop!" cried one. "There's a policeman. Let's ask him."

The horse was instantly pulled up, a few yards beyond the place where Sherlock now stood.

"Policeman!" cried the first speaker. "Have you seen a woman pass this way?"

"What sort of woman sir?"

"A woman in a navy blue dress; simple but inexpensive, with brown hair."

"I haven't seen her, sir."

"If you or any of your men meet with the woman, stop her, and send her in careful keeping to that address. I'll pay all the expenses and a fair reward into the bargain."

The policeman looked at the card that was handed to him.

"Why are we to stop her, sir? What has she done?"

"Done! She has escaped from my asylum. Don't forget. Drive on!"

15


	2. Chapter 2 Murder at Gable Manor

**Chapter 2 - Murder at Gable Manor**

Sherlock Holmes awoke early the following morning. Having gone out before breakfast to send some telegrams and a note to Wiggins, the leader of the "Baker street" irregulars, he returned to Baker Street to find the doctor midway through his breakfast.

With his usual flare of teasing and eccentric descriptions, Sherlock told the story of the night before, beaming with amusement at the increasingly comical look on Watson's face. When he finished, Sherlock sat back in his armchair, his pipe in hand and an intoxicating cloud of smoke around his head while the doctor sat at the table, his half finished breakfast now cold, staring at him with the air of one who is bewildered as well as horrified.

"Well Watson," Sherlock said after a thick silence. "What do you make of it?"

"I hardly know what to make of it," the doctor replied, "I mean – well – you helped a mentally unstable woman escape from an asylum!"

Sherlock puffed at his pipe thoughtfully.

"No…" he said softly, "she was a great many things, Watson. But I am satisfied that she was not mentally unstable. Strange, and a little eccentric in her mannerisms but hardly anything to call her mad,"

"But the gentlemen in the carriage!"

"May be mistaken, or more likely part of an elaborate conspiracy."

Watson smiled softly.

"Holmes, I know your feeling depressed by your lack of employment, but that doesn't mean you can create them out of incidents that are otherwise straightforward. This woman was in an asylum, she somehow managed to escape to London, where you found her wandering in a graveyard in the dead of night. You see, there is no mystery to it."

"And her story, about being cruelly used and cruelly wronged?"

"Simple fantasy. No doubt she believes it to be true, but in fact; it's all in her head. It is a fairly common symptom in people like that."

"No, no, no, Watson," Sherlock replied softly, "I am able to observe when someone is lying and I have, on more than one occasion, observed the actions of people with unstable minds: this woman is neither. You did not see her or else I'm sure you would speak differently. She was lonely, and confused; but there was reasoning in her speech. She knew exactly what she wanted and what she was going to do that, to me, is proof of a healthy mind rather than an unbalanced one. And the fear, Watson: such terrible, heart wrenching fear; fear of this nameless baron whom I'm sure is the one who put her in the asylum: "I have been cruelly used and cruelly wronged." That is what she said. No friend Watson, these were not ravings. This woman was fleeing for her life."

Watson was still sceptical. "But her actions, Holmes! You said yourself her actions and speech were strange."

"My actions and speech are strange!" Holmes cried with a touch of impatience. "You say it yourself! Simply because someone behaves slightly beyond the norm doesn't mean they are dangerous and should be locked up!

I didn't say there was nothing wrong with the woman, I said she wasn't mad. Perhaps she has some mild form of illness that makes her act so; you're the doctor, you know of such things better than me. All I know is this woman is in trouble, and I intend to do everything in my power to help her!"

Sherlock jumped onto his feet with an energy that matched the conviction in his voice, and fixed Watson with a look that showed nothing would change his mind.

At that moment, the door swung open and a young ragamuffin ran in, taking his cap off and saluting to both gentlemen.

"Ah, Wiggins," said Sherlock, walking to the other side of the room and sitting at his desk, "you got my message."

"Right, gov," the youth replied breathlessly, "I got 'em all standin' by. I came as quickly as I could!"

"Well done," Sherlock replied, "now: I want you to look for a lady; tall, thin with brown hair and green eyes, and wearing a navy blue dress, a bonnet and carrying a small handbag. She will have been seen in Tottenham late last night, so I suggest you begin your search there. Find out where she is and if she's with anyone. Report as soon as you do. An extra guinea goes to the boy who finds her."

Sherlock said all this while writing a note on a scrap bit of paper.

"Right, gov!" Wiggins said, and he ran out.

Watson shut the door behind him and turned to look at Sherlock, who was still writing.

A small smile was playing on the doctor's face when Sherlock finished and turned round.

"Why do you smile doctor?" he asked, ringing a bell and striding to the closed door. "Can it be you are already beginning to appreciate my reasoning?"

"No, not really," Watson replied, "but I suppose this is better than seeing you crouched in a corner filling yourself with chemicals!"

Sherlock smiled at him. Then with another reflex of energy, he threw open the door with a cry: "Mrs Hudson!"

The poor elderly woman, who had obviously been eavesdropping stumbled in, looking highly indignant.

"You rang, Mr Holmes?"

"Would you go to the butcher shop and give this to Bill, please,"

"That young rascal with the funny eye?" Mrs Hudson said sceptically, taking the note from Sherlock.

"The other is invaluable," replied Sherlock, "as is his bicycle."

He made a gesture to the door and she walked out, still looking indignant.

Sherlock closed the door again, a mischievous look in his eyes that made Doctor Watson chuckle.

"What do you intend to do now?" he asked.

"Nothing," Sherlock replied, taking out his violin, "I can do nothing else until I receive replies from my telegrams and the 'irregulars' have discovered the lady's whereabouts. But I shall be very much surprised if we don't hear anything by early evening!"

It was eleven o'clock of the same evening, and Sherlock Holmes was sitting in his armchair beside the fire, smoking continuously.

There had been no news; nothing to give him a clue as to the whereabouts of the woman. His telegrams had both been replied to with negative results, and Wiggins had reported there was no sign of her in the Tottenham area.

Sherlock found this depressing, but Watson pointed out that he had hardly allowed any time at all to pass for the 'irregulars' to make a proper search, and added confidently that there would probably be news tomorrow.

Tomorrow came and went, as did the following day; and the day after. Slowly the days turned into weeks until one month had went by and nothing could be discovered. During this time Sherlock had went through a variety of moods; initially nervousness and impatience, resulting in him going out for a week and returning in frustration; then gradually subsiding into terrible depression, from which, not even cocaine could relieve him of.

Watson could do nothing but watch and show his support, for Sherlock would not allow him to do any more, even when it was becoming clear it was becoming a medical problem. He didn't eat, he didn't sleep or go outside; he simply sat in his armchair smoking, staring at a spot on the carpet, and rarely speaking when spoken to.

It was a particularly dark day in March; the clouds heavy and threatening of rain, when Watson ran into the living room, a beaming smile on his face and a business card in his hand.

"Holmes! Wonderful news!"

Sherlock's head jerked up, the first time in weeks. "Wiggins has found her?"

Watson's smile wavered slightly. "No."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and slouched back into his initial position.

"But I do have something to cheer you up," said the doctor brightly, "I was working in my practice when, at about midday, a young woman came in and asked if I could spare a few minutes conversation with her."

Sherlock made no inclination to show he'd heard, but the doctor continued nonetheless.

"I allowed the lady to come in, though I told her on no uncertain terms that I could speak for a few minutes. Well, in she came, a lovely young lady at that, and after introducing herself, she told me immediately that her reason for visiting was that she wished to see you."

Still, no response from Sherlock.

"I enquired why, if she wished to see you, was she at my practice," Watson continued, " and she said that she didn't know where you lived but by means of a friend, who is a patient of mine, she was able to find her way to the practice. Her name is Miss Judith Allan and the matter concerns her brother, Holmes; her brother has been murdered!"

At this point, Sherlock looked up at the doctor, who looked as though he had been told he was inheriting a fortune.

"You sound so delighted, Watson," Sherlock remarked dryly.

"My dear fellow, this is exactly what you need; a little problem to get your mind of this other business, for the circumstances are very mysterious."

"Watson, I know you mean well, but to actually come here and tell me a simple murder has occurred and dressing it up in mystery is hardly going to put me in good spirits."

"I'm not dressing it up in mystery. It really is-"

"Hardly worth my time," Sherlock interrupted, stumbling dejectedly into his bedroom.

"But I've told her to come to Baker Street," the doctor cried desperately, "I said you would be more than happy to assist and she said she would return at three o'clock."

"Then let that be a lesson to you not to make promises on my behalf," Sherlock replied, now lying sprawled on his bed.

Watson walked in and draped his arm over the bed, still holding the card in his hand.

"But Holmes – "

"Miss Judith Allan!" Sherlock said softly, staring up at the name of the card. "I wonder… Did she say where she was from?"

"Yes. Cumbernauld; Gable Manor."

Sherlock sat bolt upright, snatching the card from his friend and stared at it fiercely.

"What is it Holmes? What's wrong?"

"Cumbernauld… Gable Manor…" Sherlock whispered.

"You know the place?" Watson asked.

"No. But I know the names; I heard them recently."

"From whom?"

"The lady from the graveyard!"

10


	3. Chapter 3 The Game is Afoot

**Chapter 3 – The Game is Afoot!**

Never had a thunderstorm occurred so quickly in London. The sudden, booming thunder caused almost everyone to jump and flee for cover. Coupled with the flashes of lightning that quickly followed, the streets of London were soon thrown into mayhem.

So it was in 221b Baker street, as the clock chimed three times, Doctor Watson ran to and fro trying to tidy the rooms as best as possible, while Holmes made the task all the harder by throwing his clothes everywhere with frenzied excitement, in an attempt to look more presentable.

"Is it a mere coincidence, Watson!" he cried from his bedroom as a shirt flew across the door. "A woman escapes from an asylum, who has lived for a short period of time in Gable Manor and has had relations with the people there; and now, a month later, a murder has been committed in the same place."

"I hardly think so," Watson replied, throwing some newspapers behind a chair, "you don't suppose that your mystery lady was somehow involved?"

"Watson, your asking me theorise without data. All we know is that a murder has been committed, the victim's name is Mr Allan, he is the owner of Gable Manor and that years ago the lady attended a school in the area ran by a Mrs Harrison. What possible theory can be made out of that?"

At that moment, the distinct sound of a carriage could be heard pulling up outside.

"That will be our client," said Sherlock emerging from the room, wearing fresh clothes, his hair brushed and a childlike happiness on his face.

"Watson, be so kind as to hand me my pipe."

Downstairs, Mrs Hudson could be heard talking with another woman and then climbing the stairs.

Watson, gave Sherlock his pipe and was about to sit down when Sherlock grabbed his arm.

"Say nothing about the lady from the asylum and her connection with this case," he whispered as the door opened and a young woman stepped in.

"Miss Judith Allan," Mrs Hudson announced, closing the door behind her.

Sherlock gave a small nod to his visitor.

Miss Allan was dressed regally in a burgundy coloured dress and an elegant feathered bonnet sitting gaily on her head.

She was very beautiful, pale and solemn with thick raven black curls falling gracefully around her face.

"Miss Allan," Doctor Watson shook her hand. "I hope you had no difficulties in finding the place?"

"No, thanks to your directions, doctor." She replied, glancing at Sherlock Holmes who remained silent.

"Please do sit down," said Watson.

She smiled gratefully and took a seat with her back facing the window.

"I am grateful to you both for agreeing to meet me for I must confess; I am quite at my wit's end with this awful business."

"Doctor Watson tells me the matter concerns your brother, who has been murdered, I understand?"

Miss Allan nodded.

"Oh yes. Poor, poor Harry – I can't imagine how this could have happened to him."

"Tell us how we can help you," Said Sherlock sitting across from her, "and leave nothing out."

She took a handkerchief out of her bag and dabbed her eyes with a sniff.

"I am unmarried gentlemen, and I lived with my brother at Gable Manor in Cumbernauld, which we inherited from our father."

"Your father has passed on?" Sherlock asked

"A year ago, yes."

Sherlock nodded. "Pray continue."

"My mother died when I was only five years old, and my brother Harry was eight. It was a terrible blow to my father; he and my mother were very fond of each other.

When Harry was ten he was sent to boarding school. I was sent to the school in the local village, which was run by Mrs Harrison; a dear old lady with a heart of gold – she had lived some time previously in Canada where she had adopted an orphan girl, whom she brought with her to this country.

Well, the girl and I became great friends, and Mrs Harrison would bring her every weekend to the manor where she would teach us music.

When my father realised that they were not very well off, he had a cottage built for them on the estate. We called it Green Gables."

"That was very generous of him," said Watson.

"Indeed," Sherlock added, "_uniquely _generous."

"Well, my father became particularly fond of the orphan girl," Miss Allan continued, "she was always top of our class at school, for she took an interest in almost everything, even politics! There would be nights when she would sit with my father and they would have such conversations that no woman would ever have! And _so _wild! She was once dared to walk across the roof top of the school and she did it – nearly broke her neck in the process but she would never back down from anything."

"Indeed," said Sherlock, "the name of this remarkable woman?"

"Anne Summerley," replied Miss Allan, "when Mrs Harrison died five years ago, father set aside some money for her, which accumulated. It's has become quite a fortune now."

"And this Miss Summerley was fond of your father?"

"Yes. My father died rather suddenly a year ago – a stroke, the doctors say – and Anne was very much upset by the incident. She and I took turns to be his nurse in his last days. She has only now just started to recover."

"And now your brother has been murdered."

"Harry had always been besotted with Mrs Harrison – the two were as thick as thieves. It was through her help he was able to break away from a particularly bad group of people who had started him on a gambling addiction. But when she died, Harry… Harry never quite recovered. He moved to London and very rarely came to the manor except to check on me, but whenever he did, he's always in the blackest of moods and would shut himself in father's library."

"How long would his visits last?" Sherlock asked

"Never more than five days."

"And were there specific dates when he would turn up, say… would he turn up routinely once every two months?"

"Perhaps not as frequent," Miss Judith answered, "but yes his visits were routine, and he always sent word beforehand."

Sherlock's eyes sparkled. "And it was during one of these visits that he was murdered?"

Miss Allan nodded.

"When he arrived, did he appear out of sorts?"

"No more than usual. He did send word to Miss Summerley when he arrived that he would like to speak to her on a pressing matter the next morning…"

"Is that unusual?"

"Well, the two didn't get along very well – clash of personalities – but there was nothing significant between them. But I had never heard of Harry sending for her in the past."

Sherlock looked at Watson, who was taking notes, and signalled to him to make a special note of this.

"What happened after that," he asked.

"Everything went as usual the rest of the day. Harry locked himself up in father's library and that was the last I saw of him – he always has his meals in there and he is the last one to go to bed.

I went to bed as usual at ten o'clock and I heard his footsteps walking at half past midnight. In the morning I was awoken by the most frightful howl from the maid, who had brought Harry his early morning coffee and newspaper.

My poor brother was lying in a heap on the floor in his night gown, his face and body contorted and twisted in pain. I must have fainted, for I am unable to tell you what happened afterwards. When I came to I found I was back in my bed chamber with Miss Summerley and a police inspector watching over me. It was on the inspector's suggestion I came to see you Mr Holmes, for the whole thing is utterly perplexing. Who would want to murder my brother? What possible good could come from it?"

Watson looked at Holmes, who was now standing by the fireplace, smoking thoughtfully.

"Did you happen to notice if your brother's bed had been slept in?" He asked finally.

"No, it had not. I also noticed a glass had smashed beside my brother's body, as though he had been drinking some water before he died."

Sherlock began pacing up and down.

"Does your brother have any enemies?" Watson asked.

"None."

"Do you know of anyone who would benefit from his death?"

"No. My brother was young and stubborn, and he was very much altered by the death of Mrs Harrison; but he was a good man."

"When did this happen?" Sherlock asked.

"Yesterday; Scotland Yard have been informed, but the inspector knew you from the past and said I should ask for your assistance."

"Will you be returning to Cumbernauld?"

"I have some business to settle with our lawyer, Mr Rankelior, but I will be returning this evening."

"Then I suggest you do as you have planned," said Sherlock, striding to the door, "and be prepared to meet with us at Gable Manor early tomorrow morning. Say… about nine o'clock?"

"Of course," replied Miss Allan rising, "I shall have the servants prepare rooms for you both."

"Then until tomorrow, Miss Allan."

Sherlock gestured to the door, and after shaking hands with Doctor Watson and expressing her greatest thanks, she left. She had not gone any more than few steps when Sherlock called her back.

"Just one more thing, Miss Allan. You say that Miss Harrison was well loved by all in your class?"

Miss Allan was taken aback by the question.

"Oh yes; her students all loved her."

"You wouldn't happen to remember a particular student – a girl – who stood out in the class; a girl who would have been classed as perhaps slightly odd?"

"Now that you mention it," she replied thoughtfully, "there was such a girl, her mother had brought her to Cumbernauld and wished her to have an education; but she was only there for a couple of months. Mrs Harrison spent a good deal of time with her, for she seemed quite simple, if I remember right."

"Thank you, Miss Allan," Sherlock said with a smile, "until tomorrow morning."

He closed the door behind her, and rubbed his hands in delight.

"Well Holmes?" the doctor asked.

Sherlock turned to him.

"The game is afoot, Watson," he said softly, "the game is afoot!"


	4. Chapter 4 The Plot Thickens

**Chapter 4 – The Plot Thickens**

Rain pattered down onto the roof of the carriage as it travelled quickly down the quiet country road. It was not yet eight o'clock in the morning, and Watson yawned continuously throughout the journey while Holmes stared out the window at the bleak scenery.

On the way to the manor they passed the local village, where it looked everyone was still sleeping. On the border of this, there was a small building with a bell on top and a pretty garden situated at the front.

"That will be the school, no doubt," Sherlock mumbled, more to himself that to Doctor Watson, though he heard.

"I still don't understand why he didn't travel yesterday, instead of delaying it," he said, stifling yet another yawn, "after all it is a most urgent-"

"I had some business to attend to before we left," Sherlock interrupted with a wave of his hand.

"The note for the butcher boy?"

"Yes," replied Sherlock, with a tone of finality in his voice that stopped Watson from questioning further.

"Ah, that must be Gable Manor," said Sherlock, almost in relief as the carriage turned into the grounds of a well kept and large estate. In the distance, stood Gable Manor; a magnificent looking building, that would have been very beautiful if it were not for he miserable weather, and the terrible tragedy that had been committed inside.

Sherlock stopped the carriage when they were half way through the grounds – it was a very large estate – and jumped out, with Watson following.

They strolled quickly together, while Sherlock stared at the fast approaching building, mumbling to himself as they went:

"Very modern, very modern; Windows and doors look secure, of course there's no knowing until they have been properly examined."

A group of people stood at the grand door of the building, and as they got closer, they could make out the energetic figure of Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard, as he barked out orders to the other policemen.

"And make sure nothing, absolutely nothing is to be touched, is that understood?"

Sherlock walked straight up to him. "Good morning inspector," he said cheerfully.

The inspector turned in surprise.

"Mr Holmes!" he said, though his voice lacked the same cheerfulness as Sherlock's. "What are you doing here?"

"The same reason as you I trust," Sherlock replied glancing at the manor.

"The murder?"

"Quite."

"But it was only committed the day before last; news couldn't have travelled that fast to London."

"No, indeed," replied Sherlock with a smile, "Miss Allan called upon me yesterday to look into the situation. So here I am."

"Miss Allan," Lestrade said, "has been taken to bed, I'm afraid; due to a bit of bad timing. When she returned last night, we were in the midst of taking the body out, and it was accidentally uncovered. The poor girl fainted and she hasn't been seen since."

Sherlock nodded, though he was evidently disappointed.

"Well… I trust it is nothing serious," he said, "perhaps it would be a good idea for Doctor Watson to see her; would you doctor?"

"Of course."

The two men walked past the inspector, with Doctor Watson now leading the way.

"Now, wait a minute gentlemen," said Lestrade, trying desperately to regain control of the situation, "you can't just go walking in Mr Holmes – Miss Allan has already seen a doctor – Gentlemen you can't just –"

"Mr Holmes?"

By this time they were now in the manor and were walking down a corridor that led into a large hall, which led into many different rooms with closed doors.

Walking down the stairs was a middle aged woman, whom Sherlock judged as the housekeeper.

It was she who had addressed him.

"I am Mr Holmes," he said, removing his hat and gloves, "and this is my friend and colleague doctor Watson."

"My young mistress sends her apologies for not meeting you," the housekeeper said, "her nerves have been greatly tried, and she is not able to leave her room. She told me of your arrival and has instructed me to give you whatever you need."

"Excellent!" cried Sherlock, handing his garments to the maid, while the butler took their luggage. Lestrade looked severely irked.

"I trust your mistress's condition is not serious?" Sherlock asked.

"The doctor came this morning, but was unable to stay long as there appears to be a good deal of illnesses in the village at the moment."

Sherlock looked at Watson who nodded and took his medical bag.

"Perhaps I should have a look at her," he said, stepping forward.

"Thank you sir; I shall show you the way," the housekeeper replied, "Shall I have the Jane take you to your room, Mr Holmes?"

"Not yet, Thank you," Sherlock replied, "I believe I shall begin my investigation, if you would be so kind as to lead the way Lestrade."

"Of course, Mr Holmes," said Lestrade, "but I doubt you shall see anything that my men haven't already."

They all made their way up the stairs, where Doctor Watson and the housekeeper left for Miss Allan's room while , Sherlock and Lestrade went to Mr Allan's room.

Inside, everything had been left exactly as it had been the night of the murder. Sherlock went into action, and immediately began examining the room, while Lestrade watched in amusement as he crawled along the floor and scrutinised every bit of furniture. He even sniffed at the carpet, around the place where the body was.

"Well, Mr Holmes?" Lestrade enquired after a while.

Sherlock looked at him as thought just noticing he was still there.

"Ah, Lestrade; it is very interesting, very interesting indeed. Was there any marks on the body?"

"None."

"Then, how has the coroner explained the death?"

"Apoplectic fit, brought on by shock no doubt; something or someone must have entered the room and scared the wits out of him."

"Really," said Sherlock, "and how would this intruder get in?"

"Well, the window was open!"

"Of course, of course!" said Sherlock with a hint of impatience, "and do you have any suspects?"

"I have men looking into the victim's history; it would appear he had a few expensive gambling debts that he was struggling to come to terms with. I wouldn't be surprised if the murderer was one of the men to whom he owed money. Would you not agree Mr Holmes?"

"Why, Lestrade!" cried Sherlock, jumping to his feet, "I do believe you have hit the nail on the head; I must congratulate you."

The inspector puffed out his chest and grinned pompously. "Well… it is a rather simple case; I'm only sorry that you should've come so far for a trifle."

"Yes, it is rather disappointing," said Sherlock dismissively, "but never mind, I am in need of some fresh air, and where better to go than beautiful Cumbernauld."

"You intend to stay then?" Lestrade asked suspiciously.

"Well there is no reason why I shouldn't; the doctor will no doubt be needed to tend to Miss Allan and I am after all her desk; besides I have another enquiry in the area which I can look into while I'm here."

"Oh well… Good day you Mr Holmes."

"Good day Lestrade."

The inspector left Sherlock alone in the bedroom, where he stood staring at the open window as Doctor Watson came in.

"Lestrade looks very pleased with himself," he commented, making Sherlock smile.

"Yes he is; though I'm sure that would change if he was aware of the many errors in his theory."

"Did you not enlighten him? I can tell that the case is becoming clear to you."

"Yes it is, but I doubt it would make any difference to Lestrade at this point. How is Miss Allan?"

"Very nervous; her health is in a fragile state, I have no doubt she will recover in time, but I will need to be close at hand."

"Good. I hardly think this case should take any more than four days. Five at the most, then it shall all be settled."

"Five days?" Watson asked.

"Is that sufficient enough time for you to look after your patient?"

"Of course."

"Well then! " Sherlock walked past him and out the room, "if you can spare a few hours, I would very much like you to go to the coroner's office and examine the victim's body for yourself."

"And what will you be doing?" asked Watson

"Interviewing the servants, and socialising with the local villagers; shall we meet again say about lunchtime?"

"Yes. But Holmes – "

"I shall explain everything later Watson; for the moment there can be no delay. There is something amiss, Watson – I'll stake my reputation on it – a menacing plot in which everything is connected and this murder is the first stage."

"A plot?"

"Yes, and my Jove I shall get to the bottom of it, Watson; as God is my witness, I **_shall_** get to the bottom of it!"


	5. Chapter 5 Anne Summerley

**Chapter 5 – Anne Summerley**

_Thank you to Amberlin, Elsie Cubitt and Susana for your reviews. I'm intending this to be one of three stories, perhaps four depending on how things go. Thank you very much for your encouragement._

The morning brightened as the day wore on, and by midday, though it was cold, the sun was shining brightly in a clear blue sky and the landscape was bathed brilliantly in its light; the grass, still wet form the rain the night before, glistened with the morning dew.

The manor was situated on top of a large hill, and so the scenery was spectacular all around; as was the manor itself.

Sherlock Holmes, after interviewing the servants of the house, walked down to the village where he spent most of the morning obtaining all the local gossip.

He was making his way back to the manor, and had just reached the top of the hill, when he saw the solitary figure of a constable walking towards him.

When he had gained some distance, he recognised him as Constable Jefferson, with whom he had shared another case in the past.

The constable waved cheerfully.

"Mr Holmes! How good of you to come; I doubt you have ever been more needed."

"If I remember correctly constable, those were the very words you used the last time we met."

The constable chuckled. "Yes, indeed; and I also remember how brilliantly you captured the murderer. Do tell me; are you any nearer to shedding some light on this mystery?"

"Mystery! Oh Jefferson, I would hardly call this poor man's murder a mystery, it is really quite simple to the man who is able to observe and deduce!"

"Then you know who the murderer is?"

"I have suspicions, at the moment they are nothing more, though I hope to enlightenyou soon. Tell me Jefferson, you have lived in Cumbernauld all your life, have you not?"

"Yes sir."

"So you know everyone in the area?"

"Fairly well sir, yes."

"I hear the Smith, the butler, is quite new?"

"He's been here for three months; a quiet boy, but I believe Scotland Yard have looked at him and have found nothing against him."

"Yes, I know; you say he is a quiet boy, yet at the village it would appear he has quite a taste for drink according to the landlord of the inn."

"Well, a servant's behaviour may differ when he is off duty to his behaviour on duty, Mr Holmes. The boy becomes a bit wild, but nothing criminal."

"Yes… Well… What of Miss Summerley, what can you tell me of her?"

"Miss Summerley was an orphan girl from Canada, brought here by Mrs Harrison. Not much is known about her past life, but she is very well known here."

"A distinctive beauty is she?" Holmes asked with a smile.

"Not exactly Mr Holmes. She is very pretty to be sure, but what is most attractive about her is her individuality; she is strong minded and independent, and very intelligent."

"And brave too, to have scaled the roof of the school," Holmes added.

Jefferson chuckled. "Ah yes sir… She is very unique."

"She and Miss Allan are close friends."

"They're like sisters, sir. When they were children they were inseparable, and old Mr Allan treatedher as another daughter."

"Yes; Miss Allan told me her father was good enough to have a cottage built for Mrs Harrison and Miss Summerley on the estate, to alleviate their financial difficulties."

"Yes indeed," replied Jefferson, "Green Gables; and you will never find a more cheerful cottage. You can see it there in the distance."

Holmes looked to where the constable pointed, and made out a small white cottage sitting quite isolated amongst the many fields and trees, on the border of the estate.

"How far away is Green Gables?" he asked.

"Oh, a good three miles sir," Jefferson answered.

"I see…" Holmes said softly, still gazing at the cottage, "well thank you Jefferson."

"Always glad to be of assistance, Mr Holmes."

Holmes gave him a short nod as he walked by him.

His eyes following the direction of the path, he hardly gave any thought to where he was going until he reached the manor.

He stood in the foyer and looked outat the cottage once again,when he saw someone walking in line with the cottage, towards the manor.

As he watched, the figure jumped over the fence surrounding the estate, and began trudging through the fields.

Sherlock waited until the figure was closer and saw with surprise that it was a woman wading through ankle deep mud.

She had auburn hair that sparkledgolden in the sunlight as itflew wildly in the wind. She didn't wear a coat, though it was bitter cold; she wore a white blouse and a navy blue skirt which was getting dirtier by the minute.

Some time passed before she came to the manor, and his presence startled her when she reached him.

NowHolmes was not a man that was easily impressed, made even harder by his poor opinion of women; but even so, he could not help butbe impressed bythis woman.

She was at least five years his junior, with a young face vibrant with energy. Her skin was free of any blemishes, and was very fair save for the freckles about her rosy cheeks and nose. She was slender and tall, though she was nothing compared to Holmes who was at least six feet, and he towered over her.

Her eyes were a bright emerald green colour, and they sparkled magnificently from the exercise.

She was undoubtedly very pretty as the constable had said; yet not beautiful, at least… not in thesuperficial sense. It was difficult to describe, but Holmes found it fascinating.

They stood for a moment, looking at each other intently, and Holmes observed a deep suspicion in her glare.

After a moment, Holmes touched his hat to hergiving her his usual brief smile:

"Miss Summerley, I presume," he said, for there was no need for introduction on her part.

"And you must be Mr Sherlock Holmes," she said with a small nod, though she did not return the smile.

"I have come to enquire after my friend, Miss Allan."

Holmes glanced back at the cottage and the distance she had covered.

"On foot?" he asked.

"As you see." She retorted.

Holmes's smile returned and this time stayed on his face, though it was small.

Obviously his appearance was of some annoyance to her, and she was making no attempt to conceal it, as most women would have.

"You evidently have much affection for Miss Allan if you are willing to go through three miles of muddy fields, jump over a fence and not care for the state of your clothing."

He glanced down; her feet were covered up to the ankles in mud while the hem of her skirts were so badly ruined it was a wonder she was not embarrassed to be seen out in public. But she paid no heed to them and stated simply; "the housekeeper, Mrs Phelps sent word to me this morning that Judith had taken ill, so here I am."

"Ah! So you intend to stay at Gable Manor?" Holmes asked.

"Gable Manoris as much my home as Green Gables."

"Well of course, after all you are her closest friend."

"Yes," she answered in impatience, "I have no doubt that you wish to ask me questions in relation to your investigation of Harry's death; but I must ask you as a point of courtesy to wait until I have settled at the manor and have seen to my friend. At dinner tonight I will be more than willing to answer any questions you may have. Will that suffice, Mr Holmes?"

Holmes nodded. "It will."

Miss Summerley smiled, though it did not reach her eyes. "Then if you would be so kind as to let me by?"

Sherlock stepped aside and watched her stride into the manor, where the housekeeper was waiting at the porch for her. The two women embraced and went inside together.

"Miss Summerley…" Sherlock thoughtfully, as Dr Watson arrived in a carriage from the coroner's office.

He jumped out beside Holmes and followed his friend's gaze into the house.

"Holmes?"

"The energetic Miss Summerley has arrived and is staying at Gable Manor."

"Indeed? What do you make of her?"

"A most remarkable woman: young and vibrant with an intellect unique amongst the female species."

"I have the coroner's report as you requested."

"Later, Watson. What is important is thatMiss Summerleyis here, and unless I am very much mistaken, her appearance will shed more light."

"You believe she is connected in this somehow?"

"We shall see what dinner will reveal to us."

When darkness fell, the manor seemed to fall into an isolated, gloomy depression that echoed throughout its many corridors and empty rooms.

In the dining room, Sherlock Holmes, Dr. Watson and Miss Summerley sat for a while eating in silence. But Dr. Watson, being of a very sociable disposition, was soon able to break the ice, and Miss Summerley proved to be a very charming hostess. The two were soon chatting like old friends, while Sherlock sat in silence, neither eating nor it seemed, paying any attention to their conversations.

At one pointshe surprised both men, though Holmes made no appearance of being so, with her knowledge of the war in India; at which Dr. Watson dove deep into his many adventures while the lady listened in deep rapture.

When dinner was over, they went to the lounge, where Dr. Watson continued with his tales, moving ontohis adventures with Holmes. Again Sherlock sat in silence, causing many curious glances from Miss Summerley.

Aftera particularly gruelling tale of the Creeping Man, Miss Summerley sat subdued, her attentions now fully focused on Holmes, who sat in an armchair by the huge roaring fire with his eyes closed.

"Mr Holmes?"

Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at the young lady.

She was wearing a simple white dress with puffed sleeves and a purple sash around her waist. Her arms were covered by her gloves and her hair was now tied back in a bun, though some loose curls fell about her face, which she pushed behind her ear.

"My friend, Miss Allan hired you to look into the death of her brother Harry. I must first of all tell you that I was against the idea, though I have read Dr Watson's accounts. I hardly think a private detective is necessary, but Judith did not share my view. Now that you _are _hear Mr Holmes, can you tell me nothing of what you have found out so far?"

"My dear Miss Summerley, what makes you think I have found out anything?"

Miss Summerley smiled.

"Apart from your activities today, you have done nothing else. Since you are not at any pains this evening to continue, you've obviously discovered something."

Holmes nodded to her. "Miss Summerley your faculty for observation astounds me."

Miss Summerley said nothing.

"It is true that I am a step closer to solving the case," he said,"but before I elaborate, I must first ask you those questions you were so eager to leave until now to answer."

Miss Summerley bowed her head. "Of course."

"First, what was your relationship with Mr Allan?"

"There is no great mystery; we were not friends but we got on reasonably enough. Harry knew that Judith and I couldn't get on without each other so he strove hard, as did I, to keep things amiable between us."

"But there were a few disagreements?" Holmes asked.

Miss Summerley smiled. "You put it delicately, Mr Holmes. In truth, Harry was jealous of his father's affection for me; there was a bond between us that he couldn't share and he often vented his frustrations on me. I was not trying to undermine his relationship with his father, and I often stayed away from the manor whenever Harry was there, so they could spend some time together. But old Mr Allan, the dear man he was, had no idea of the conflict between us and hewould askfor me, especially during his last months and his mind wasn't what it used to be."

She clenched her fists together, and for a moment Sherlock feared she would break down into tears; something he was never able to cope with, but Miss Summerley kept her composure.

"Mr Allan died a year ago, is that right?" Watson asked softly.

"Yes."

"Yet, Miss Allan seemed to think her brother wassuffering before then, around the time when Mrs Harrison died."

Miss Summerley nodded. "She kept him out of trouble, and he was always grateful for that; she motivated him to achieve great things and be a good, generous person like his father. But the moment she died, it seemed a part of Harry died with her. He was never the same again."

"Quite understandable," replied Dr. Watson comfortingly.

"Yet… despite all this, he was very intent to talk to you on the day of his death." Holmes continued.

"Yes, I received his message in the early evening; I was very curious so I sent word that I would meet with him the next day as he requested."

"But by that time the crime had been committed."

"I was walking up to the manor, when I was met by Smith running down the path, greatly agitated. He told me they had found Harry dead in his bedroom and that Judith had fainted. I sent him for the police and went immediately to Judith."

Sherlock remained silent for a while; then he asked: "Do you have any idea what Mr Allan wanted to speak to you about?"

"I think it might be about my financial situation and old Mr Allan's will; he left me money you see."

"Can you tell me the contents of the will?" asked Holmes.

"I'm afraid I cannot," Miss Summerley replied, "You would have to ask Mr Rankelior, the family lawyer. He will be visiting this week to discuss affairs with Judith and myself."

Sherlock nodded, apparently satisfied. He was on the verge of excusing himself when Miss Summerley spoke.

"I have answered all your questions, Mr Holmes. Will you now return the favour, and enlighten me on Harry's death?"

Holmes looked at Watson, who was now watching him intently.

"Certainly," he replied, "though there is very little mystery to it. Firstly, it should be pointed out that there was no one in the bedroom when Mr Allan was killed."

"But the window was open," Watson said in surprise.

"And the room situated on the second floor; the walls are smooth with no ledges, there is no ivy and no ladder on the premises, so unless man has the ability to somehow fly that is unknown to me, that conjecture can be done away with."

"Then how did Harry come to his death?" Miss Summerley asked.

Sherlock smiled. "Might you not take a guess Miss Summerley? The body was found in the bedroom: we have already ruled out the possibility of an intruder, there was no injury, no mark on the body; yet we know he did not die from fear,"

Miss Summerley gasped. "You mean he was poisoned?"

Sherlock nodded. "Would you agree doctor?"

"Certainly; it is plausible. A poison unknown of in this country could certainly cause and apoplectic fit and go undetected. But how would it be administered?"

"The glass Watson! The glass. Remember by the body, there was a smashed glass and a spilt substance on the carpet. I later learned from the maid Jane that Mr Allan would take a glass of water with him to his room in case he needed a drink during the night. When I examined the room, I sniffed at the place where the water was spilt. Icould smell the faint scent of a foreign substance. It was enough to tell me that Mr Allan had been poisoned."

A heavy silence followed, broken by the steady chiming of the grandfather clock in the hall.

It was eleven o'clock at night.

"Are you suggesting Mr Holmes," said Miss Summerley quietly, "that someone, who knew Harry's daily routine, poured poison into his glass of water?"

Sherlock nodded. "Death would have been instantaneous."

"Then logically," continued Miss Summerley, "you suspect one of the servants."

Sherlock looked at her. He didn't say anything, nor did he move, but his gaze was enough to tell her she was right.

"Who do suspect?"

"I cannot tell you at present," Sherlock replied.

Watson glanced at Miss Summerley, who appeared to be suppressing her growing irritation.

"May I ask why not?"

"Because if I told you my suspicions you would see to it the person left the manor instantly, thus raising the alarm."

"The police should be called-"

"The police will only arrest when they are given proof," Sherlock interjected, "I have only suspicions. You must trust me, Miss Summerley. Give me a few days and I will deliver the guilty one; until then you must treat_ all_ the servants as you have done until now, or risk raising the alarm."

Miss Summerley looked ready to argue, but she said nothing. Instead, she rose and walked to the door. Both men stood when she did, Watson looking dismayed at having upset the lady; Holmes looking as though he had expected the reaction.

She opened the door half way and then turned round and looked intensely at Holmes, her emerald eyes alight.

"My trust is earned Mr Holmes, not given," she stated, "you are withholding information from me, more than you care to let on – Please! – Don't look so surprised Mr Holmes; it is perfectly obvious. I know of your opinion of the intellect ofwomen, and it is this that makes you surprised that I am able to read you as you read others. You have told me to trust you, now I tell you this:** I do not trust you**; you have done nothing to be credited with trust and until you have done something to merit it, I will continue to distrust you. Goodnight gentlemen!"

She left them standing in the lounge in dumb silence. Watson stood with his mouth agape, looking at his friend to see his reaction.

Holmes hadn't moved, but stared at the closed door, his face contorted to display a mixture of emotions: surprise, frustration, irritation… Admiration.

He didn't know whether to laugh or scowl, and his expression was so comical that Watson couldn't help but laugh.

"Well, well, well," he said walking to the door himself, "I never thought I'd ever see you silenced by a woman Holmes."

Sherlock glared at him and sat back in the armchair. Watson continued to chuckle. "How do you suppose she knew you were withholding so much from her?"

"She read my mind Watson!" Holmes snapped sarcastically, "How do you think she knew?"

"Steady on old man," said Watson with a smile, "you said yourself she was remarkable."

"All the same," said Holmes,eager to change the subject, "this must not distract us from our main investigation. I will require you to be up early tomorrow."

"No need to worry," said the doctor, opening the door, "I'll be seeing to Miss Allan anyway. But perhaps you could enlist the assistance of Miss Summerley; I doubt anything suspicious would get past her."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Droll Watson. Very droll."

"Goodnight Holmes."

"Goodnight."

Holmes stayed in the lounge way after midnight, and the maid had been round the room turning down the lights, leaving him with the dying fire as his only light.

Still, he did not move, staring at the flames. To anyone observing him, it would appear he was in deep thought over the case in which he had been hired to investigate. Initially, it was so, but as time passed, his thoughts wandered; but always returned, as he gazedinto the fire, to the image of Anne Summerley; her flame colouredhair flying freely in the wind.


	6. Chapter 6 Breakfast and Plans

**Chapter 6 – Breakfast and Plans**

_Sorry for such a big delay in this chapter but I had to stop for exams and that. Anyway, here it is, sorry it's a bit short, I promise the next one will be longer. Enjoy!_

The following morning, Dr Watson was up early to tend to Miss Allan. The poor girl was in a terribly fragile state, but was gradually gaining strength; certainly she was much better than the day before.

Having made sure she was quite comfortable, and giving more instructions to the housekeeper, he left to go down to breakfast.

Upon descending the stairs, he found Sherlock Holmes in the hallway taking off his coat, evidently just arriving.

"Morning, Watson!" he said cheerfully, "sleep well? No doubt you have if your quarters are as comfortable as mine?"

"Holmes, where have you been at this time?"

"In London," he replied, taking his hat off.

"What time did you go to London?" Watson asked increduously.

"Oh about six o'clock – or was it five? – It was a necessary journey, and I didn't want to waste the day travelling."

"What on earth did you need in London?"

"Research, my dear Watson, research! The missing links in the chain, which I intend to look over throughout the course of the day."

"You know who committed the murder?" asked Watson as they made their way to the breakfast room.

"Of course!"

"Who?"

"All in due time, Watson, for I shall need your help in capturing the guilty one. But for the moment, not a word."

They had just entered the breakfast room where Miss Summerley was there to greet them – or rather, there to greet Dr Watson, for she completely ignored Sherlock Holmes, who sat down with a humoured smile.

The breakfast room, like every other room in the manor, was large and magnificent. Due to the design, it was the only room without a fireplace, for on it's eastern side, were grand patio doors, where the sun would shine brilliantly and light up the entire room. The doors lead out onto the veranda and the vast garden, and so, with the doors wide open and a fresh morning breeze coming in, breakfast was very charming. Dr Watson was as bright and sociable as ever, and he interacted with their pretty hostess while Holmes watched and listened intensely.

When the servants arrived with the breakfast trollies, he looked directly at Miss Summerley to analyse her behaviour. If she felt suspicious of anyone, she hid it beautifully, for she smiled at them all and Holmes breathed a sigh of relief. For whatever reason, she was complying with his instructions from the night before.

Holmes didn't eat any of the food set out before him, but drank some coffee, which he took with him as he left his seat and stood by the patio doors, admiring the scenery, while the doctor and Miss Summerley finished eating.

"So tell me, doctor" said Miss Summerley, "How is Judith doing? Is she better?"

"Alas!" said Holmes before Watson could answer, "Doctor Watson was just telling me Miss Allan's condition has deteriorated since yesterday."

Miss Summerley looked from Holmes to Watson.

"It has?"

Watson looked as bewildered as Miss Summerley, and simply looked at his friend, who had now resumed his seat across from him.

"Well is it serious?" Miss Summerley asked, a note of panic in her voice.

"Oh, you need not fear, Miss Summmerley," Holmes continued, "you may rely upon Watson to have your friend up on her feet once more, is that not so doctor?"

By this time, Watson had recovered and, having received the hints from Holmes, was ready to answer.

"It was a slight deterioration, Miss Summerley. But I have no doubt Miss Allan will get better as the day goes on."

Miss Summerley nodded, apparently satisfied her friend was not in eminent danger.

"May I see her?" she asked after a while.

"I'm afraid not," Watson replied, catching a subtle movement from his friend, "although she is not in danger, I would rather be on the safe side, and leave her undistubred throughout the day."

Miss Summerley nodded. "Of course, doctor, as you wish. Well, gentlemen," she said, rising: " If you need me I shall be in the library."

She made her way to the door before Holmes called her back.

"One thing, Miss Summerley," he said cheerfully, "these doors – are they left unlocked all day?"

"Only when it is not raining," Miss Summerley replied coldly.

"Who is in charge of locking them?"

Miss Summerley narrowed her eyes. "Why?"

"If you wish me to be of any use," Holmes retorted impatiently, "you will have to give me the information I ask for."

There was a moment's silence as the two sized each other up.

"The housekeeper has the keys," Miss Summerley eventually replied, and with that she opened the door and left them.

As soon as she'd gone, Holmes sprang across the room and closed the door, then returned to his seat and leaned across the table to the perplexed doctor.

"Holmes! What in heaven's name – "

"Hush Watson! A woman's life is in danger and time is of the essence – Now listen"...


	7. Chapter 7 Trust Earned

**Chapter 7 – Trust Earned**

Anne Summerley spent the morning down at the village, where she bought some new clothes, a bonnet and some books from the old bookshop. She had planned to stop and have some lunch at the local inn on the way back, but everywhere she went, there were always enquiries into the situation at Gable Manor, and she became wearied with telling the story over and over again. At the inn it would be even worse, and she feared what would happen if she went in and her temper got the better of her. She knew they all meant well, but at the same time – the constant gossiping was giving her a headache.

By the time she reached the manor again it was early afternoon and the first person she met was Dr Watson, who was strolling about the gardens.

"Enjoy your shopping Miss Summerley?" he asked as she walked up to him.

"Hardly," she retorted, "they speak of nothing but the murder at the village. Honestly – I could barely take a breath or move a foot before someone would come up and ask me what was going on."

Watson chuckled. " Well, this is a quiet village. A murder is bound to cause a commotion."

Miss Summerley looked round the gardens. "So, where is Mr Holmes?"

"He's in his room," the doctor replied, "he didn't get much sleep last night so he's very tired."

"I see..."

Dr Watson looked at her nervously. "He, erm... He left me some instructions for you."

Miss Summerley jerked her head up. "Instructions?"

"Yes," Watson continued tentatively, " he said the patio doors in the breakfast room are not to be locked under any circumstances."

"They're to be left unlocked?"

"Yes."

"All day?"

"And all night."

"All night!"

Watson smiled in embarrassment. "Yes."

"Why on earth would he want me to do that?" she asked incredulously.

"Please, Miss Summerley," the doctor implored, "you must do as he says."

Miss Summerley gave him a knowing smile. "Mr Holmes has sworn you to secrecy, doctor. Whatever he is planning, I am not to know; is that correct?"

"For your own safety, Miss Summerley," Watson explained, "Mr Holmes's methods are elaborate and theatrical but they are effective, believe me."

Miss Summerley looked away thoughtfully.

"You say there will be danger, doctor?"

"Indeed."

"What about Miss Allan?"

"You have my assurance she is safe."

Miss Summerley sighed. "It seems I have no choice but to do as you say. Did Mr Holmes say anything else?"

"Only that you should not stray from your daily routine save in one instance."

"Which is?"

"That you leave for your room at nine o'clock on the pretenses of a headache, and that you should stay in your room until morning."

Nine o'clock – before the servants are off duty. Miss Summerley made a mental note of this.

"Very well doctor," she said, "I will do exactly as you have instructed."

"Thank you, Miss Summerley," said Dr Watson, evidently greatly relieved. "Well, I best see how Miss Allan is faring."

"Shall I see you at dinner?" Miss Summerley asked.

"Of course. Good day Miss Summerley."

"Good day, Doctor."

Doctor Watson walked away into the manor, but Miss Summerley remained where she was. She looked up at the building to the window of the room where Mr Sherlock Holmes was residing. It was partially open, and she could see small clouds of smoke appear from inside. The man was a heavy smoker.

She smiled. "Sleeping my foot!" she said, " don't think I don't know what you're up to great detective. It is the first rule of engagement to never underestimate your opponent!"

The day went by quietly, with Doctor Watson in Miss Allan's room, Holmes in his room and Miss Summerley in the library. In the evening Miss Summerley and Dr Watson ate in the dining room, both sombre and tense. Afterwards, Miss Summerley left for the drawing room and Watson made his way back up to Miss Allan's room, sitting quietly by the window reading a book.

With the night came an eerie heaviness that reminded the doctor of the sinister case of the speckled band; when he and Holmes had waited in darkness for over three hours for the menacing hissing and venomous pounce of the swamp adder that had been placed in the room.

Watson swallowed hard and stared out the window, where he was just able to notice the shadowy form of a man scuttling from bush to bush, closer to the manor: It was almost time.

At exactly nine o'clock, he heard the soft tread of Miss Summerley passing the room to go to her own quarters further down the corridor. As soon as he heard the door close, Watson closed his book and quietly left Miss Allan's room. The lamps were still on in the corridor and downstairs, showing that the servants were still working.

Stretching and yawning, the doctor went down the stairs into the drawing room, where the young butler Smith was putting out the lights. He was unusually large for his age, and in his uniform he looked comical standing on a stool and adjusting a lamp.

"So sorry, sir," he said in a booming voice as the doctor entered, " Miss Summerley is feeling under the weather and left for her room – I didn't think you would be coming back down."

"That's alright, Smith," Watson replied with a smile, " I just thought I would do some light reading before turning in. If you could leave that light on at that table there, that'll be grand."

"Yes sir."

Watson watched as he turned out all the other lights, leaving the one on the table as desired. He bowed and was about to leave when Watson called him back.

"One moment, Smith,"

The butler turned round. "Yes, sir?"

"I realise that you're finished for the night, but I wonder if you could do me one more thing before you leave."

"Of course, sir," Smith replied, his posture sagging in disappointment.

"Would you be good enough to take a glass of water up to your mistress's room? In case she gets dehydrated."

Smith smiled and bowed politely. "Right away sir."

"Thank you, Smith."

The butler left, and Watson was alone in the room. Nervously, he picked up the day's newspaper and sat in the large armchair beside the light.

The clock chimed ten o'clock, and it's sound echoed throughout the building, breaking it's eerie silence. Giving up on reading, Watson threw the paper away and began pacing the room. He hated waiting alone; especially when he wasn't sure what the outcome would be. Holmes had told him to go into the drawing room as back up, but Watson knew perfectly well it was for protection Holmes had told him to go there. If he had wanted backup, he would've told Watson to stay upstairs; instead, he insisted that Watson remain in the drawing room until the alarm was raised.

"But what is the alarm?" Watson had asked when Holmes had explained. But Holmes simply smiled and waved a knowing finger.

"You'll know when you hear it, Watson."

Watson cursed under his breath: he hated when Holmes spoke cryptic. Nonetheless, he had done as he had been told, and now all he had to do was wait.

He didn't have to wait very long. Ten minutes later there came the sudden roar of a gun going off upstairs, it's echo throughout the manor making it sound like an earthquake.

After recovering from his initial fright, Watson sprang out of the drawing room into the hall. At that moment, there was another sound – the sound of a door slamming open, and the heavy thud of footsteps in the breakfast room.

With his revolver ready, Watson ran to the room and opened the door on time for the intruder to collide with him. Knocked back, and more than a little confused, it took a moment for Watson to realise the intruder was speaking to him.

"Doctor Watson? Doctor Watson, are you alright?"

Watson peered into the small lantern that was now being thrown into his face and recognised the busy moustache and pleasant face of Constable Jefferson.

"Yes, yes – Quite alright, Jefferson," Watson replied recovering himself.

There was loud crash of china from the floor above, and the sounds of fighting. Jefferson looked up at the ceiling, and then back at Watson, who was now running to the stairs. "This way, constable!"

They reached the top landing and ran down the corridor to Miss Allan's room, where they met an extraordinary sight.

The huge form of Smith the butler, trying to fit his large frame through the door, with Sherlock Holmes on top of him, hanging on for dear life.

"Bring him down, Watson!" he cried, as the big brute smashed him against a wall in an attempt to get him off. "Bring him, down!"

Watson immediately leapt at Smith's left leg, while the constable went for the other, attempting to make him fall. But even with them, Smith managed to keep his balance, and roaring like an animal, he continued to make his way through the corridor: with Holmes on his back, and dragging Watson and the constable on the floor with his feet.

They were almost at the stairs, when suddenly Smith stopped with a grunt. Holmes peered over Smith's shoulder to see Miss Anne Summerley standing before them. She was in her white nightgown with a light shawl draped over her shoulders, her hair fell down to her waist in curls and shone under the moonlight.

She didn't flinch as they approached, but stood her ground, her arms by her side and an expression of grim determination on her face.

"Raise your hands, Smith," she said in a low voice, "and get down on your knees."

Smith looked at her, as though pondering what to do.

"Miss Summerley, get out of here!" Holmes cried. But Miss Summerley remained where she was, her eyes fixed upon Smith, who was now crouching slightly. He was preparing to push her out of the way.

He took a step towards her, and she raised her hand, pointing a small pistol to his head. Again Smith paused; he hadn't expected this.

All this time Watson and Jefferson pushed and pulled upon Smith's legs, trying to unbalance him, but to no avail. The scene would have been comical, had it not been under serious circumstances.

"I'm warning you, Smith," Miss Summerley said, her voice now barely more than a whisper, "I don't give second chances. Do as I say, or I _will_ shoot you!"

Holmes heard Smith swallow hard, and detected a tremble. Could this colossal man actually be afraid of a woman? Holmes peered over at Miss Summerley again: the way her jaw was set, her posture rigid, her eyes ablaze. Yes, she would shoot, and Smith knew it.

"If I surrender, I'll be hanged," Smith grunted, but Miss Summerley was unyielding. "You can die now or die at a later date. At least with the latter you have the chance to appeal."

Smith seemed to be considering this. Then finally, he went down on his knees, allowing Holmes back onto the ground and Watson and the constable to stand.

Holmes clapped his hands. "Bravo, everyone," he said as Jefferson put handcuffs on Smith, "true to form as always, Jefferson. You may wish to hold him downstairs until backup arrives – Help him, will you Watson?"

The three men walked along the corridor; Constable Jefferson leading the way, Smith in the middle, and Watson behind, pointing his revolver into Smith's back.

Walking swiftly into Miss Allan's room, Holmes picked up the gun which had fallen in the scuffle: it belonged to Smith. He turned to leave and found Miss Summerley standing in the doorway, still holding the gun loosely at her side. She looked at his face anxiously.

"You're hurt, Mr Holmes," she said gently.

Holmes blinked, and felt his face. He hadn't noticed until now, the unusual swelling around his eye – his cheek was also sticky with blood. He smiled and waved it away dismissively. "Only scratches due to my own clumsiness," he answered bluntly.

She nodded and looked about the disarrayed room.

"I believe you will find Miss Allan in my room," Holmes said, anticipating her actions. When she looked at him again he added: "She is quite well – But no doubt she will be anxious to know what the commotion was about."

Miss Summerley nodded again. She looked as if she were going to say something, but instead, she walked out the room, her eyes wide like she were dazed.

Holmes shook his head and then crouched on the floor; where there was broken glass and a liquid spilt on the rug. He was in the midst of analysing this when:

"Mr Holmes?"

Holmes looked up. Miss Summerley stood at the door once more; her eyes now shining with unshed tears and her lip trembling with emotion.

Holmes waited. "Yes, madam?"

"Thank you."


	8. Chapter 8 A light in the Darkness

**Chapter 8 – A light in the Darkness**

"How did you know it was Smith, out of all the servants here?"

The following morning had brought more police, press and nosy villagers than the murder had, and for a while, Miss Summerley was kept busy restoring order to the chaotic household. The servants and housekeeper, upon hearing of Smith's guilt, were thrown into disarray, resulting in the former not preparing breakfast, and the latter going to bed ill. The mistress, Miss Allan, though well enough to be up an about, was still too weak to be of any use and on top of it all, the police and Scotland Yard were once again stampeding throughout the building, asking questions left, right and centre; so it wasn't until the middle of the afternoon, that Miss Summerley was able to draw breath; having hunted the police and gossiping villagers, and put the servants back into their routine.

It was at this point, she went looking for Mr Holmes, whom she had not seen since the night before.

She found him back in his quarters: the floor and furniture covered with papers and the man himself, stretched out on the floor on top of them, burrowing through them like a mole. After exchanging greetings, and finding herself a place where she could be comfortably seated, they then conversed upon the night before.

"Simple," the detective replied, after re-lighting his pipe. "All the other servants in the manor are people born and brought up in this village, and have been with the family for years; Smith, however, is relatively new, and is not from the village, therefore he seemed the more likely suspect.

My suspicions were confirmed when I discovered that the glass of water, which contained the poison, had been given to Mr Allan by Smith."

"How did you discover that?" Miss Summerley asked.

"From the cook," Holmes replied, " she had been present when Smith took the glass to her master – a rather clumsy mistake, since the statement is damning; the boy obviously hasn't much experience in homicides."

Miss Summerley looked at him anxiously. "But why would he then go after Judith? What was the purpose of him killing them both?"

"Well, the Scotland Yard inspector, Lestrade, believes Smith was hired by one of Mr Allan's debtors to murder the siblings in order for them to claim the money that was owed them."

"But you don't think so," Miss Summerley pressed, and Holmes gave out a hearty laugh.

"My, my!" he said, "the faculty of observation is certainly contagious, for it has enabled you at once, to reveal my differing perspectives. Miss Summerley you have intelligence that goes beyond your years."

"Why do you think Smith wanted to murder Judith?" Miss Summerley insisted, though the compliment gave her an unnatural twitch of excitement.

"Well, the reasons I disagree with the inspector's take on the matter lie before you now," Holmes replied, indicating the papers, "I left for London yesterday morning to get them."

"What are they?"

"They consist of the will of old Mr Allan," Holmes replied, "an important and complicated amount of documents since it decides the future of one of the wealthiest famillies of this area – but I felt it was necessary to bring it as research material and possible evidence."

"And?"

"It immediately excludes the theory of Smith being hired by debtors to murder your friend or her brother – no good would come of it."

"Why?"

"Because in the event of both Mr Harry Allan and Miss Judith Allan dying without heirs, Mr Allan states in his will that you, Miss Summerley, are to be recipient of Gable Manor and the entire fortune connected with the estate."

As he said this, Holmes looked up at Miss Summerley, who was now sitting in a daze.

"You did not know this," he stated, turning away and reading the papers he had in his hand.

"No, I did not," Miss Summerley answered, passing the back of her hand across her forehead. "I had no idea."

"Then you will also be unaware that an addition has been made to the will by Mr Harry Allan," said Holmes.

"Harry made an addition?"

"Stating that upon his death, his sister would inherit the estate and wealth, with the exception of one thousand pounds, which you are to inherit – no doubt it was on this matter that he wished to discuss with you the day before he died."

Miss Summerley didn't answer, and for a while, they were silent; Holmes continuing to read various papers and Miss Summerley staring out the window.

"You still haven't said why Smith would want to kill Harry and Judith, Mr Holmes," Miss Summerley said eventually, in a hushed voice.

At this, Holmes threw the papers in his hand into the air, with a quick movement that conveyed his irritation.

"Alas, Miss Summerley, I am unable to say," he said, rising to his feet.

"You have no theories?" she asked.

"I have several theories – each of them as unlikely as the next – and Smith is of no help, he will say nothing!"

His voice rose as he spoke, and he paced the room with an obsessive energy Miss Summerley had never seen before. She sat and watched him for a while, and for the first time since they met, was able to study him. He was remarkably tall and thin, with dark brown hair combed back from his thin white face. His hawk like nose fitted well with his large green eyes; which seemed to blaze with an inner strength that she found fascinating. He would be quite handsome, she thought, if he would only smile more.

He stood before her, gazing out of the window; his brows furrowed, and his eyes roaming across the landscape as though hoping to see the answers run through the fields before him. He was evidently very much perturbed by his being unable to discover why Smith was motivated to act as he had.

Miss Summerley then stood, and his attention once more turned to her as she drew an envelope from the pocket in her skirt.

"I have been instructed by Judith to give you this on her behalf, Mr Holmes," she said, holding the envelope out to him, "she hopes you will accept it, as I hope you will accept my deepest apologies for being so discourteous – Indeed, my behaviour towards you since you have arrived has been intolerable, and I hope I have not offended you too deeply."

Holmes looked down at the envelope she held as though it were a rattle snake.

"Your gracious apology I accept in the hope that no more be said on the matter," he answered, "the cheque that you hold, however, I cannot accept – I have not merited it."

"I do not see it in that light," Miss Summerley replied with a smile, "and neither does Judith – we are both eternally grateful to you for your help in capturing the murderer. He will be seen as guilty with or without sufficient motive, and as long as he is punished for his crime, the rest need not matter as far as I can see. I _do_ know that Judith will be very upset with me if I return with this cheque still in my possession and no doubt she will blame me for not having persuaded you more forcefully, and so I offer it to you again, Mr Holmes, along with my friendship - if you will have it."

Holmes stared at the woman before him. Never before had he met such a personification of frankness in any other man or woman of his acquaintance. Mingled with the childlike innocence that had not yet been shattered by the hardships of an adult, Holmes was struck by a momentary silence and was at a loss as to what to do. What was this queer feeling that made his stomach turn and his heart flutter?

Eventually, he took the envelope and then took the hand that remained extended for him to shake. It was warm, pale and tiny, and he engulfed it in his gentle grip.

"Thank you, Miss Summerley," he said softly, "you do me a great honour."

He noticed her cheeks suddenly flush, and the sudden temporary confusion that he had found himself only moments ago, seemed to have made it's way to her, as she hastily withdrew her hand and instantly changed the subject.

"So will you be returning to London this evening, or tomorrow morning?"

Holmes smiled as he answered: "Neither."

"Oh?"

"Another case which I was following before yours, is also linked to this area, which I will be looking into more thoroughly. No doubt Watson and I will impose ourselves upon the village in for the remainder of our stay."

"Oh please, Mr Holmes, you and Doctor Watson should feel free to remain at Gable Manor for the duration of your stay – it is certainly more comfortable and more private than the inn and Judith and I would be honoured to have you both as our guests."

"Well thank you Miss Summerley," Holmes replied, leaning against the fireplace, "I accept your invitation on behalf of both myself and Doctor Watson."

"Pray, may I hear of this other case?" she asked, her voice and manner conveying her great curiousity.

"You have a claim to hear it. The Chief person in the case was a total stranger to me, and is possibly a total stranger to you; but she certainly mentioned the name of the late Mrs Harrison in terms of sincerest gratitude and regard."

"Mentioned my adopted mother's name! You interest me indescribably, Mr Holmes. Please continue."

Holmes at once related the circumstances under which he had met the woman in the graveyard, exactly as they had occurred; and he repeated what she had said to him about Mrs Harrison and Green Gables, word for word.

Miss Summerley's bright resolute eyes looked eagerly into his, from the beginning of the narrative to the end. Her face expressed vivid interest and astonishment, but nothing more, and Holmes concluded that she was evidently as far from knowing of any clue to the mystery as he was.

"Are you quite sure of those words referring to Mrs Harrison?" she asked.

"Quite sure," Holmes replied, sitting cross-legged in an armchair, with rings of smoke circling his head. "Whoever she may be, the woman was once at school in the village, was treated with especial kindness by Mrs Harrison, and, in grateful remembrance of that kindness, feels an affectionate interest in all surviving members of her family. She knew that Mrs Harrison was dead, and she spoke of your friend, Miss Allan and her brother as if she had known them when they were children."

"You said, I think, that she denied belonging to this place?"

"Yes, she told me she came from Hampshire."

"And you entirely failed to find out her name?"

"Entirely."

"Very strange, I think you were quite justified, Mr Holmes, in giving the poor creature her liberty, for she seems to have done nothing in your presence to show herself unfit to enjoy it."

"I'm gratified to hear you say that," said Holmes, "Doctor Watson didn't seem to agree with my reasoning."

"I wish you had been a bit more resolute about finding out her name. You had better not speak of it yet to Miss Allan. She is, I am certain, quite ignorant of who the woman is, and of what her past history in connection with us can be, as I am myself. But she is also, in widely different ways, rather nervous and sensitive; and you would only alarm her to no purpose. I however, am all aflame with curiousity. Mrs Harrison, when we arrived here from Canada, did indeed establish the village school just as it exists at the present time. But the old teachers are all dead, or gone elsewhere; and no enlightenment is to be hoped for from that quarter..."

Her voice trailed off as she turned the mystery over in her mind. Holmes watched her in amusement; the way she was talking, it sounded like she was taking over, but he didn't mind. He was sure that some clue as to the identity of his mystery woman lay somewhere in this house, and he had no doubt that Miss Summerley would find it, for he deduced her to be as industrious as she was intelligent.

"The only other alternative I can think of," she said eventually, "Judith and I have a large collection of Mrs Harrison's letters, addressed to old Mr Allan. In the absence of any other means of getting information, I will spend the afternoon in looking over Mrs Harrison's correspondence with Mr Allan. The two were great friends, but Mr Allan was fond of London, and was constantly away from Gable Manor; and she was accustomed, at such times, to write and report to him how things went on at Gable Manor. Her letters are full of references to the school in which she dedicated her life; and I think it more than likely that I may have discovered something when we meet for dinner."

Holmes neither moved, nor showed any obvious eyes of interest as she spoke. But when he looked at her, his eyes were ablaze at the thought of coming closer to the source of this mystery.

"I would be grateful of your assistance in that area, Miss Summerley," he replied, getting to his feet as she rose and made her way to the door.

"You will be at dinner then?" she asked hopefully, "Doctor Watson has hope that Judith may be able to join us tonight. At seven?"

"I look forward to seeing Miss Allan again," Holmes replied, implying his intent to attend and she smiled at him happily.

"Till seven o'clock, then. Good day, Mr Holmes."

"Good day. Miss Summerley."

She left quietly, and closed the door behind her. Holmes listened to her footsteps as she walked down the corridor and down the stairs, until he could hear her no longer. He then turned back to the window once again, and watched the a beams of light from the sun, break through the intimidating darkness of the clouds.


End file.
